


downy sins of streetlight fancies

by aphoticdepths



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe-Canon Divergence, Character Study, Gen, Incest, Major V3 Spoilers, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-explicit BDSM, Post-Game, Self-Harm, Slurs, Unsympathetic POV Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 01:03:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12097317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphoticdepths/pseuds/aphoticdepths
Summary: He's the name on everybody's lips. MAJOR V3 SPOILERS, AU where it's virtual reality and everyone survives.





	downy sins of streetlight fancies

Most people left the hospital after Dangan Ronpa quiet. Subdued. Shirogane walked out smiling and happy, but she was the _mastermind,_ she already worked for Team Dangan Ronpa. Of course she did. But the others all left defeated, shaken, scarred. They called it the walk of shame, Amami said to the others after Shirogane left. The way he said it, it might have been a joke, but he delivered it with a  frown. Amami was not a skilled liar.

Korekiyo Shinguji leaves as soon as he can, and he walks out of the hospital with assurance. Of course, the papparazzi are there, sticking microphones in his face. Of course there are camera flashes. Of course the people are staring at him with fear and with hate and with lust and he feels giddy. This is what he wanted. This is everything he'd ever dreamed of.

(He doesn't like to think about his dreams.)

Shinguji keeps his mask on because the air in V3 doesn't worry about asthma or week immune systems, and the Shinguji there was healthy as could be, but outside, it's another story. But he still mugs for the camera, still speaks politely to everyone-his words come out far more elegant and antiquated than they had before, and he likes that. He only chooses the best sites and reporters for interviews, of course. The ones that will get him _noticed._ The ones that will get him _seen_.

He's never been happier in his life.

* * *

 

The old Shinguji-he still remembers him. Before the game. Sickly and asthmatic and constantly in and out of hospital. Required to wear a mask for his own good. Students at school shouting names at him-otaku, faggot, freak, wimp. Spending money, making himself flashy, making them notice him, and having it all fall away. Because in the end he was still a pasty long-haired nerd with a pretty-boy face who read old books and who was sick and pathetic in every way. His parents didn't even care for him.

In the hospital, everyone came for everyone else. There were people everywhere, crying and hugging. Shinguji was alone as Maki wept into her mother's chest.

He didn't care. He'd looked it up on the internet. The fans loved him anyway.

He keeps wondering what it must have been like for the him in the show to have someone who _loved_ him. Someone who _cared_ for him. He keeps reliving the phantom memories of a soft voice reading him a story, an arm around him while he slept, a kiss on his lips. Of nee-san. Sometimes-of course, there’s enough people who want him, but sometimes he has to do it by himself-he jacks off and he thinks about her. He pretends that it’s his sister’s hand.

Then he remembers the feeling of his body melting and her smile, and he concludes the Korekiyo in the show didn't have anyone who cared either.

Still. It would have been nice.

* * *

 

He buys eyeliner and mascara and bright red lipstick. The clerks stare at him because isn't that the boy from Dangan Ronpa? The one with the sister? The _killer?_ Every eye is on him, scared and fascinated and hateful and lusting and hungry, and he loves it. He flirts with the clerks, flirts with the ones who catch his eye, goes home, and uses the memory of weeping in front of a mirror and desperately trying to bring her back to make his lashes long. He pulls down the mask, and paints his lips red. He looks at himself in the mirror.

He hears the words they shouted and sneered at him. _Sissy, faggot, tranny, freak-_

His hands curl into fists at his sides. He is beautiful.

* * *

Every night, he wakes up screaming. On the better nights, it's about the execution, about the smell of his flesh melting, about heat and agony and blood on his skin, about a woman's high laughter as he feels himself ripped from existence.

On the worst nights, it's phantom memories of a close, stuffy room and the crack of a whip and pain and pain and pain.

It’s better when there’s someone to spend the night besides him. He brings home the ones he likes most. For a pretty Dangan Ronpa star, there's plenty to choose from. So many people who want him, who want him to _dominate_ them. He does what they want, and their star-struck eyes, the fact that there's people who actually want to fuck him, it's the hottest thing he could imagine.

He didn't join Dangan Ronpa for the pain, didn't join it for the suffering. He joined it for _fame_ , so he could be noticed, so people would look at him and _want_ him. But to tie up someone who wants nothing more than you to hurt them, for you to fuck them...oh, that gives him a rush of power that he just loves. The ones who want to dominate him, he can deal with, because they love him just as much. He doesn't like it if they hurt him, though. One man brought out a flogger and he froze, breath wheezing in his throat, terror pulsing through him because all he could think about was a small room in an abandoned temple and a man taking out a whip and ropes digging into his skin and a desperate hiss of “ _Apologize-_ “ was out of his mouth before he could even think twice.

He kicked the man out.

Sometimes, there are women. Women with long dark hair. Women who he can pretend for a moment are someone who never was real, and even if she was real, she'd be his sister, but she _loved him and she cared for him and even if it was a lie-_

He never stays in bed with them. Sometimes they keep the nightmares away. But only sometimes.

* * *

Korekiyo searches his internet tag. Of course, he likes the interviews he does, loves to see what they think of him-the wonder, the revulsion, the _fascination._ They love him. They want him.

He likes to read the fanfiction they write about him, but only the filthy ones. The ones about breaking him, making him a useless puppet. So filthy, so _disgusting_ , and yet this is what _he_ made them feel. He made them want to fuck him this much.

He likes that.

And then he sees the jokes and the memes and he feels utter rage because how _dare_ they laugh at him, how dare they, _howdaretheyhowdaretheyhowdarethey_ -all he can think about is the looks the other students gave to him, cruel laughter as they hit him and glared at him.

He closes his eyes, breathes out, and remembers the feeling of stabbing Yonaga in the neck. It relaxes him.

He watches a dance remix of his breakdown at his trial and remembers sick terror and breath catching in his throat and desperately clinging to his sister because she was strong for him, she cared, she would be strong for him-

He closes the tab.

* * *

His parents don't even want to talk to him. He wonders if he scares them. If he disgusts them. He wonders if they wonder if he asked for it, if he said 'make me love to kill, make me love my sister, make me a sick psychopath'.

He told them 'make them remember me'. He told them he'd like to be the SHSL Folklorist.

What they gave him was better than what he could have asked for.

He's moved out. Team Dangan Ronpa certainly gave him enough money for that. He lives on his own.

His parents are disgusted by him. The other survivors were disgusted by him, when he told them in that _therapy meeting-_ as if he needed it-that he didn't regret what he'd done at all. But why does he need their approval? His is the name on everyone's lips. He was a standout. His class trial was amazing, they tell him-though so many people are disappointed it was him who killed Yonaga, not someone else. But they _love him._

And that is all that he needs.

* * *

 

He reads, sometimes. They didn't give him the memories of all the books show-him read, so he can experience them for the first time. Gothics and translated books and ancient legends and books with dense, antiquated prose.

He loves them.

He drinks tea when he reads them. He used to drink soda and coffee and sparkling water, because that was what everybody drank. He doesn't need to worry about that now-about dressing how everybody dresses, about being the trendiest, about trying so hard to fit in. He'll be a Dangan Ronpa star no matter what he does.

* * *

 

Sometimes he remembers when he summoned his sister-when he put the knife to his skin, dug in, made himself bleed, brought himself to the edge of death and then saw _her._ He's never done that. He remembers that the Korekiyo Shinguji of Dangan Ronpa should have been covered in scars but the real Korekiyo Shinguji's skin is flawless.

(There are no whip marks. He knows there are none. But he still feels the lines of fire on his back when he wakes up.)

He sometimes puts a knife to his skin and wonders if he'd see her now, if he cut in. What it would feel like. If for a moment he'd see her.

In the memories-the ones that weren't real, the ones that weren't where he was alone-she loved him _before_ Dangan Ronpa. She loved him for him. She cared for him and smiled for him and she told him to pursue what he loved. She thought he was beautiful. She thought he wasn't just Korekiyo Shinguji from Dangan Ronpa, she thought he was Korekiyo. Sometimes he tries to speak to himself in the voice he used for her on the show.

It's not fair. It's not fair that the one who killed 92 women had someone who cared for him, genuinely loved him, and the one who killed 2 had...he had his fans. That counted.

(But he still, always, holds the knife. And he wonders if he'd see her if he dug it in.)


End file.
